


butter to my bread

by memitims



Series: consider ur fav ship [8]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2050365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memitims/pseuds/memitims
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mickey cooks for ian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	butter to my bread

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by bullet point #3 on [this](http://zoroasterperetola.tumblr.com/post/90887735050/yes-but-consider-ur-fav-ship-making-rly-bad) list ('yes but consider 1 of ur fav ship cooking dinner but its shit and the other totally taking the piss')

It all started with a box of macaroni and cheese. 

"Why you always gotta make things out of the box?" Ian asked, while he spooned the pasta Mickey had made for dinner out of the pot and split it up evenly between their two bowls. He didn't know exactly why he asked, but he'd had a bad day and he was bored and teasing Mickey never got old.

"Fuck you," Mickey said from the table. "At least I make dinner for your ass. You should be fuckin' grateful that I even cook at all."

And Ian was, he really was, for a lot more than just coming home to a hot meal, but he was grateful for every one of Mickey's rare smiles and the way he curled closer to Ian in his sleep and how he sometimes held Ian's hand, now, in broad daylight, just for the hell of it. Ian wanted to go back in time ad tell his younger self that it was gonna be hard, no doubt, but it was all gonna work out in the end. He and Mickey were built to be broken, but they were also built to pick themselves up and glue their pieces back together until they could kiss each other in the morning and argue about stupid shit and tell each other their deepest secrets.

"I bet you can't make anything from scratch," Ian retorted, loving the way Mickey's eyebrows went up automatically and he clenched his fists in fake malice and he stared Ian down across the counter like he was gonna beat him up, or maybe just kiss him. 

"Oh yeah?" Mickey asked, his voice dropping lower, like he was trying to fuckin' intimidate Ian, like that would actually work on him. Ian had seen Mickey save a baby duckling from the side of the road once, watched him hold it in his hands and coo over the little thing, its little head and soft feathers making Mickey melt. Ian was never gonna find him intimidating again. "You wanna come say that to my face?"

Ian grabbed the two bowls of mac and cheese and sauntered over to the table. He pulled out the chair next to Mickey's and turned it so they were facing each other. He put down the bowls and grabbed Mickey's wrist from the table, ignoring his looks of confusion. 

"I bet you can't make dinner from scratch," Ian said, breathily, punctuating each word as he walked his fingers up Mickey's arm. Mickey shivered under his touch and Ian smirked. "Asshole," he added, for good measure, because teasing insults were always good for getting Mickey riled up. 

Mickey darted forward and grabbed Ian's head, kissing him hard and sliding his fingers through Ian's short hair. Mickey used his other hand to trail down Ian's chest, painfully slow, stopping just before his waistband and forcing Ian to let out a little whimper. Ian wasn't sure who was winning the game anymore, and he didn't really care. 

Mickey drew away, leaving Ian hard and panting, desperate to catch his breath. "We'll see," he said, grinning at Ian and shoving a spoonful of pasta into his mouth, like he hadn't just flipped Ian's world upside down, like he wasn't the most fuckin' distracting thing Ian had ever seen. 

Losing this game wasn't an option to Ian, though, so he leaned over and brushed his lips against Mickey's ear. "If you thought that was funny," Ian whispered, his voice low and breathless, "wait 'til tonight. I'm gonna fuck you so hard you can't even remember your own name."

Mickey dropped his spoon onto the table, and Ian laughed softly in his ear as it clattered against the wood.

\---

Ian had mostly forgotten about that incident, but apparently Mickey hadn't, because Ian came home on a Tuesday night to find Mickey in the kitchen, wearing a fucking apron of all things, humming along to the radio and watching over a boiling pot on the stove. Ian had to stop for a moment, to just watch, because Mickey was smiling, and it was sappy and stupid, but Ian wanted to capture this moment forever. Christ, he was going soft, but then again, it looked like Mickey was too. And if that wasn't something special, Ian didn't know what was. 

"Something smells good, Mickey," Ian said, throwing his bag down onto the kitchen counter. 

Mickey turned around and pointed towards the table, which was already set with napkins and forks and knives and shit. "Sit your ass down, Gallagher. It'll be ready in a few minutes."

Ian did as he was told, pretending to be distracted by something on his phone, but was really just sneaking glances at Mickey every few minutes. Mickey flipped him off when he caught Ian at it.

"Shut your mouth," Mickey snapped, as he grabbed two plates from the cabinet. 

Ian held up his hands. "I wasn't saying anything!"

Mickey ignored him after that, and started filling the plates with food. Ian was pretty sure it was spaghetti and some sort of vegetable and he was kinda impressed. Mickey brought over the plates and a loaf of bread and set them on the table. 

Ian was right. Mickey had made spaghetti and tomato sauce and even some broccoli. Ian grabbed his fork and dug in. 

And promptly almost spit the spaghetti back out. 

"Mickey?" he asked, making a face. "What's wrong with this?"

"The hell you talking about?" Mickey said, his eyes narrowing. He shoved a bite of the pasta into his mouth and his face scrunched up and he swallowed with great difficulty. "Ah, fuck," he groaned. "Put too much fuckin' garlic in."

Ian laughed. "Told you. Making stuff from scratch is difficult."

"Ay, fuck you." Mickey pushed at Ian's shoulder, playfully. "I made broccoli too."

The broccoli was slightly better than the spaghetti, but it was kinda overcooked and droopy.

"This tastes like water," Ian said. 

"Watch yourself." Mickey flung a piece of broccoli at Ian's head. "Talk more shit about my food and you'll be on the couch tonight. I worked hard on this," he added, quietly. 

Ian's face softened. "I know, Mick. I'm just messing with you. Thanks for all this." He smiled. "I wouldn't want anyone else making me gross spaghetti. Plus, I doubt I could make anything better. Hell, I don't know if I could even make stuff outta the box."

Mickey smiled, too.

"Tell you what," Ian continued, "Debbie's real good at this cooking shit. I'll get her to come give us some lessons, okay? Then maybe we won't have to survive off pizza and noodles the rest of our lives."

Mickey nodded. "Okay. But if you tell Mandy about this, I'll kill you. She's been trying to get me to learn how to cook for years. Don't want to give her any more reason to think that I'm totally whipped."

"But you are totally whipped," Ian said, matter-of-factly, because it was true. 

"Ian," Mickey warned. 

He laughed and made a zipping motion over his lips. "Your secret's safe with me, dumbass."

They decided not to eat the spaghetti or broccoli, instead opting for the loaf of bread, which Mickey had not screwed up. He also hadn't screwed up the ice cream he'd bought for dessert, so they ate that too. 

Which, incidentally, turned into licking ice cream off each other's lips. And Ian was perfectly okay with that. 


End file.
